


Ritual

by MyrddinDerwydd



Series: Lyrium Ghost [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Comic: Dragon Age: Blue Wraith, Gen, Lyrium Brands, Rituals, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyrddinDerwydd/pseuds/MyrddinDerwydd
Summary: It was the day that would change his life... it was the day he forgot who he was.
Relationships: Danarius & Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: Lyrium Ghost [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/901617
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Ritual

The body hits the dirt with a thud, groaning and clutching their chest. Leto strides past three more bodies, one lying unnaturally still. He drops to one knee before the slave master and the Magister, standing side-by-side at the edge of the small arena. 

“You have fought well.” The Magister’s warm voice holds the sounds of approval. Praise is good, but Leto’s head remains bowed. “Ah, Leto my pet… I had hoped it would be you. Come. You will wash and prepare yourself for the ritual tonight.” Black and gold robes swirl in front of Leto’s eyes as the Magister turns to leave. 

“You honor me, master.” Leto speaks quickly but respectfully, his voice roughened by a hard life, but still only a boy’s life. His heart races more from eagerness than from the fight. “When may I request the promised boon?”

The robes pause as the Magister looks back, raising one thick black eyebrow at the kneeling elf. He sighs. “You may request it now.” 

“I have a mother and sister in your service, master.” Leto’s fingers tighten on the fabric of his rough pants. “For my boon I ask that they be set free, not owned by any master.” 

“A steep price,” the magister scoffs. “Most ask a boon for themselves, not others. No matter. The boon will be granted.” Dust rolls toward Leto as the heavy robe swirls again. 

“Come Leto, this is just the beginning.” The slave master hurries him toward the baths. 

Leto glances back, a shock of brown hair falling forward over his long, pointed ears. Another slave is already dragging the body of the dead man away. He clenches his hands tight, knuckles pale against dried blood and brown, dirty fingers. 

“Death. Cunning. Strength,” Leto mutters to himself. “That is what I must be to save my family.” He turns and follows the slave master, spreading his fingers wide and shaking his hands once. 

Hours later, Leto is standing in an ornate ritual chamber, the Magister’s young apprentice Hadriana carefully marking his near-naked body with a thick black paint. He can smell the blood, can still taste the ozone burn of lyrium in the back of his throat. Hadriana roughly pushes back his hair, clearing a space on his forehead and painting three dots in a perfect triangle. 

Hadriana steps back and casually casts a spell with a wave of one hand. Leto breathes in sharply, shivering as every line of lyrium and blood dries in an instant, searing the skin underneath.

“You can move,” Hadriana snaps, “but do not touch the paint.” She is several years older than himself, human, and trusted by Magister Danarius. Leto quickly looks down, away from her scathing gaze. She has always hated him, withholding his food and punishing him at a whim.

“Is everything ready?” The Magister sweeps into the room. 

“Yes Magister.” Hadriana bows. “I will retrieve the other slaves now.” 

As she leaves, the Magister gestures Leto toward an ornate golden sarcophagus chained up as the focal point of the chamber. 

“If I do this, you set my family free?” Leto asks again as he steps into the dark, smooth compartment. 

“I am a man of my word, my lad.” The Magister smiles, the same smile he uses whenever Leto has done something well. The heavy metal closes him in darkness, the Magister’s voice fades to unintelligible sounds. 

Leto stands, hands pressed to the cool metal. He flexes his muscles as he has learned, keeping his body from causing him pain from simple carelessness. No one has yet survived after this ritual for more than a few hours. Trapped with his own thoughts and the slow, nauseating burn of lyrium for nearly an hour, faint, chanting murmurs suddenly turn to sharp metallic sounds directly in front of him. 

He burns. Blue light flares around him, pain sears through his gut, lyrium-filled bile chokes him as he screams. Every muscle in his body clenches as the lines on his body begin to glow, beginning with his aching hands and feet. He can’t stop screaming, coughing and clenching his teeth around the vile taste in his mouth. Everything reeks of sweat, blood, and lyrium. The glow spreads slowly across his body. He shakes with every agonizing second, trembling in pain, forcing himself to breathe. 

The lyrium lights across his hips and shoulders simultaneously, racing through his body. The sudden jolt steals his breath, forcing his mouth open in a silent scream. Leto throws his head back, knowing only agony… and remembers nothing more.

Darkness fades to light. Lines of pain lace his entire body, silvered lines that shine with a blue-white glow. A crack widens in front of his face, doors opening. He sways, stumbling, falling weakly through the opening. Hands catch him by the shoulders. Voices, concerned and sharp, sound around him. Red-gold robes appear as his vision clears. A person. The world is agony and nothing else, only himself and this person. 

“Is he lucid?”

“He’s alive. Standing even.” 

“The markings held.”

“Did he vomit? Several of the others vomited the secondary catalyst.”

He looks up, staring blankly at the well-dressed man, breath ragged. White hair hangs in his eyes, lank with sweat. “Where am I?” he rasps. His voice sounds rough, weak. “I… don’t know who you are.” A violent tremor shakes him. “I… don’t know who I am.”

The other voices quiet. The person holding their shoulders speaks, a black-haired man with tan skin.

“You’re a new man, and I am your master. I am Magister Danarius.” The look in the magister’s eyes shifts from triumph to avarice. “Your name is… Fenris.” A predatory smile darkens their lips in the blue-white glow. “How do you like that, my little wolf?” 

“I…” He coughs, touching his neck gingerly. He grits his teeth as pain lances through his throat and sears his fingertips, all marked with glowing lines. “Fenris…” He says it like the word is unfamiliar, but he knows it. “Fenris. Yes.” 

The young elf straightens slowly, clad in lyrium, blood, and pain. “I am Fenris.”


End file.
